From an Upper Floor

When St. Paul had his experience on the road to Damascus,  it unnerved him so that he took a year off from his preaching to recover.  He of course had his groupies waiting on him.  When my world crashed and I was hospitalized,  the doctors asked me to speak to a large room of psychiatrists to answer their questions.  Would I?  I would.  Though I look back on that young woman of 35 and wonder her courage.  Few women have had a cosmic experience,  mostly men are quoted.  The nearest a doctor in that audience came to understanding was asking if I was a Rosicrucian .  I was not but understood the question.  From that experience I began peace-ing myself and learning.  I was the parent on premises with no time off and the children and I needed our world stable.   I think in learning about myself,  my desire for stability in the physical setting made internal growth possible.  My devotion and dependability in maintaining the household allowed spiritual changes their freedom. Only of late have these years been evident to me.  By keeping my eyes on the physical acts of maintenance,  the looming changes did not restrict me.  Meals to prepare,  vacuuming  needed doing,  dogs to be put out.  While the body does its due maintenance,  the mind  in conference with its Teacher soars.  And changes are wrought.

Habits. . .

The thud of the back door
as it swings shut,
the sound of keys
clinking to their place on the stairs,
tell me, even in my sleep
that you are home.

Small things noted,
giving rise to habits observed,
a sense of ritual
to a life filled with them.

We continue rituals
for without them is lost
our practise of life.
We continue to do those things
over and over,
for if we miss once,
we may lose us whom only we know.

And we do not trust ourselves enough
to know when a thing is good.

We Don’t Junk Humans. . .

People will always question the validity of one’s commitments and one’s purpose.  When I am questioned I can only say I see what is mine to see.  Regardless though of the mental and emotional garbage one carries,  there is always what someone does that has a redeeming value.  We must carry this thought in our minds at all times which is why we don’t junk humans.  There is always that redeeming factor.

Regardless of the excess garbage, there is that redeeming value of the commitment.  Where others are concerned,  there is a committed value which supersedes all else.  Here is a system of values based on the individual’s worth.  This worth he learns at the fireside, within the home,  before he leaves the front door.

With what he learns, each generation is either saved or not.  You cannot allow those to thrash in the sea of humanity neither having known love nor care.  This is necessary else you have a generation hopping in and out of bed looking for the lost father or the wandering mother who could not get out of their own way to tend to those chosen.

And we do choose because of the underlying value in each of us.  We wish to perfect who we are so in that honest judgment of ourselves, we choose to make good and right what we have not.

Just as in the underlying motion that keeps all planets  or worlds rolling,  the value beneath us all is the savory that makes the effort worthwhile.  Thinking heads may call it a benign motion but my knowledge leans toward good.  With gratitude I bow before the hard work of all Beings who work for the wellness of life everywhere.  For starters we don’t junk humans.

The Bards of Heaven

The gods have little to do about
the graying of the land
when shells explode and matter flies.

But in the homes
of compassion where love and
thirst for learning are never quenched,
these are the places
the bards of heaven check their hearts.

Too much too soon
it seems that life presents
its problems to souls intent
on games to be played.

So sorry we are for those
whose eyes intent on
greener fields have closed.
Maybe there comes a place
yet to be born in a heart
whose motive is one of purity.

to seek a nobler frame of reference.

On Different Perspectives. . . .

What is so apparent to you is not apparent to the Other.  To view with compassion is difficult when the vision of the Other is limited.  He/she would wish another just like them.  Just as you would wish to share your vision.  It is a common human condition and a psychological truth.  It makes good sense.

We would clone ourselves and in this way we would have the reassurance that we are just fine.  The insecurity that each projects is vivid.  Yet we know that if what one views is more accurate than the Other,  the perspective or vision is often disparaged.  If one can be patient,  time will confirm what one views.

Perspectives. . .

There is a need I see and
hurry to respond to before
calamity mounts and doubles the work.

You are driven by forces
different than mine and your gaze
dismisses the need I see.

Your eyes focus instead on another sight
which my eyes fail to see;
completely outside my frame of reference.

How is it our worlds differ so much
and yet are compatible enough
not to collide?

There is much to agree on;
much that has us separated,
yet even knowing this,

doubt makes us suspicious of others.
Worlds are born and remade by those like us.
We blur our edges to mesh smoothly.

We realize too late,
that in each head there is a world afloat
hoping for life everlasting.

Wars rage and people agitate
to fight ancient battles, to quiet ancient maladies,
but we are too old now, so pray,

they do not stir the ashes to bring forth another fire.
And on this we agree;
there are no more sons and daughters to spare.

Mothers and fathers are all cried out.

photo by Jon Katz

Oftentimes the greater picture is chosen to be forgotten because it is necessary to have the script as authentic as possible.  If knowledge were part of the picture, chances for the lessons to be taught would be hampered.  So love is as powerful as the anguish and the angst  in their teaching the veracity of life.  How to let go of the feelings to prevent the corrosion of spirit when the need is no longer present?  By love of who you are and what you chose to be part of.  The lessons may be hidden at the moment, but in time you will know how quite wonderful you are.  To have affirmed the life giving properties so others may live.

Old Friends Breaking Bread. . .

What’s the harm in it?
one asks, sitting
in the sun, wind lifting
tired hair.

She answers, no harm at all,
with two old friends
breaking bread.
It is good to recall
once fresh dreams.

Everything gained they agree.
Lives lived splendidly
according to script.
Lives mortgaged knowingly
so the Other could know
their moment in the sun.
They needed to learn
they were worthy.

For us it seemed
we chose it to be
a time out for us.

We raise our cups
in tribute to the great plan
enfolding us, evolution.

Choosing to make this difference.

art by Claudia Hallissey

It is a truth. . . . Sometimes we cannot improve upon a something that supports a truth and this is one of those times for me.   On this Valentine’s Day, to all who are bereft and do not or have not known love, what is missed is something you have known somewhere at some time else you would not know you miss it.  One day it will be yours again.

It will be a Given and you will know it because your name will be on that Valentine and you will be cherished for who you are.  It is a love you have known and matches what is in your heart.  You will broach the heavens this night and take a walk through the Galaxy and swing through the stars.  You will see again the love you embrace in your heart and know that forever you have had arms to enfold you.  Never were you abandoned.  Never.  This poem is for you.

This Valentine Heart. . .

I lay my heart crimson in splendor
beneath the branches
on fresh fallen snow, open to my god. . .

Here it is I am, with all
that I’ve gathered, completed to form
just what you see.

The flakes have scattered
in splendid ways to carpet the floor
as bed for my heart.

Pick it up if you please
but handle with care.
Sorely I need a tender touch.

Life has tested me to rare form.
I worked it all like Job
and wanted not to fail.

See, this Valentine heart
laid splendid on the floor of the forest
but loved to the ultimate

by the god whose creation I am.